


Voice and silence

by Whit Merule (whit_merule)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, episode coda, s12e03, s12e04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 09:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8483401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whit_merule/pseuds/Whit%20Merule
Summary: Coda to 12x03-04 simultaneously. The spaces between words spoken in this family, in text and by voice.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is actually about 3100 words long. The word count is wrong because I had to post most of the texting conversations as image files, because AO3 didn't like Castiel's use of emojis. :) If you need a text version instead of the image one, you can [read it on tumblr instead](http://whitmerule.tumblr.com/post/152724462395/12x03-04-codas-voice-and-silence-12).

(8:45 pm) _Unanswered voice call from Castiel to Dean._

 

* * *

 

 

(8:45 pm) _Unanswered voice call from Castiel to Sam._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

(2:45 am) _Incoming call: Castiel to Mary Winchester._

 

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

 

(3:40 am)

_Footsteps down a corridor. The creak of a bedroom door._

“Dean.”

“... grrfmbleskrrrrrmmmmfuhwhaat?”

“Oh, _Dean_.”

“...”

“It’s me. Are you—awake?”

“... f’ck’ff C’s.”

“I flew here as soon as—your m—Dean, this glass has cut into your hand.”

“No ssssht.”

_A sigh_. _A pause. The clinking of bottles and broken glass being cleared away. The shuff of clothes, as one large body settles down beside another._

“Can you look at me, Dean?”

“... holdin’ m’hand again, Cas?”

“I’m healing your hand, Dean. But I don’t intend to let it go until you look at me properly. Have you drunk anything but alcohol in the last ten hours or so?”

“... c’n look after m’self.”

“I know. You’ve been doing it for years. Dean, will you let me clear most of the poisons from your system?”

“Screw you.”

“Dean.”

“Lookin’ at me like that. Like you care.”

“Dean. Nothing in my Father’s creation means more to me than you do.”

_A silence. Then a sudden flurry of stumbling movement, and the violent smash of glass._

“G’tout.”

“I—”

“Get the _fuck out_ , Cas.”

“... No.”

“I don’t wanna hear it, ‘k? Don’t wanna hear th’t _bullshit_ about _caring_ and _staying_ and—and _family_ —and—fuck—f’ckoff, let go m’ wrists Cas _Cas don’t_ I.”

_The sound of a body being pushed solidly against a wall, and held there._

“Dean. Be quiet.”

“... I.”

“Hush.”

_Loud vicious voices simmering into nothingness, into helplessness and breaking._

“... fuck you.”

“No. Don’t drop your eyes. Dean. Dean? Please look at me. Let me—do what I can. At least.”

“... whatever.”

_Silence. A sigh._

“Thank you, Dean.”

“......”

“Is that—”

_Short, sharp, pained:_ “Fuck.”

“Dean?”

“Cas, buddy. Look. It’s cute that you’re trying to help. Hell, it’s awesome. Look at the poor broken human, drinking away his troubles, huh? Let’s sweep in and get rid of the booze, that’ll fix it.”

“Dean—”

“The booze is the _bandaid_ , you sorry son of a bitch. It’s a useless frickin’ bandaid, and you either peel it off horrible and slow and painful or rip it off all at once but it doesn’t make one crapload of difference to what’s festering underneath, okay? It doesn’t make a difference.”

“I know that Mary’s departure must have made you feel—”

“Just get out, Cas. Get out.”

“... I’ll call you in the morning.”

_The sound of wings, fading to nothing._

“Cas. Cas, I…”

“… Fuck.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Clanks and clatters of kitchenware, the irregular rhythm of knife against wood, and the faint sizzle of sautéing or frying. An exasperated sigh._

“You are a lowly contraption of glass and metal. This procedure should be simple. I have smote legions of demons. Don’t try my patience.”

“Uh. Cas?”

“Good morning, Sam.”

“Are you… threatening the coffee pot?”

“It remains uncooperative. Perhaps you should—”

“Yeah, maybe. Just a heads-up, I think that bacon might be –“

“Of course. Cooking requires more concentration than I anticipated.”

“Yeah. Um. Why are you here? I mean, it’s good to see you, but.”

“Dean needed me.”

_A huff._

“Of course. That simple, huh.”

“Hardly ever. But yes.”

“Yeah. I feel you.”

“And you, Sam. How are you?”

“…If you slice those potatoes a bit thinner you can put cheese between the slices before you roast them. The more artery-clogging the better, for Dean.”

“I thought he likes to toss them in Cajun spices first.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t bitch about that either. Here, stir some of this frozen spinach in with the tomatoes and mushrooms. He won’t eat much of it anyway and more for me.”

_Silence: cooking._

“Sam… how do you like _your_ potatoes?”

“Hey, Cas, I’m easy. Just roasted or whatever. So long as they’re not drowned in oil. I’ll chop that, if you want to—”

“Where’s the spices?”

“Third-top shelf to your left. Um. I think the Cajun spice bottle is on this end. No, that way, just behind the—the tea.”

“…Sam?”

_Stillness of all hands, just for a moment. The clearing of a throat. Movements resume._

“It’s fine, Cas, it’s just—uh. Turns out she liked tea.”

“I see.”

“And—and really loud music. Always thought that was Dad’s music, y’know? Seems he and Dean both got that from Mom. More you know, I guess.”

“She rang me a few hours ago.”

_The stillness again: this time, with the tension of something too painful to be called hope._

“She’s checked into a motel in town. She took one of the cars from the garage, by the way. She forgot to tell you. A red Mustang. She hopes you don’t mind.”

 _Almost choked:_ “Mind? We—of course not.”

“She is well, but tired. Worried about you.”

“Uh.”

“We talked for… some time. I think that is almost all she wanted, at least for today. Somebody to talk to. About… well, about nothings. I have learned that those can mean everything to humans. To anybody.”

“Okay. Um. Good. I’m… glad.”

“I thought I might visit her tomorrow. Today, that is. If it doesn’t bother you.”

_A sigh._

“No, Cas. That’s fine. I—thank you.”

 _Cautiously, as if asking a question:_ “I think she could do with a friend.”

“Speaking from experience there, Cas?”

“I have you and Dean.”

“I—yeah. Of course you do. I just meant… never mind.”

_Silence for a while. The clatter of plates, the flick of gas being turned off, saucepans’ contents being scraped onto crockery._

“Cas. I. I’m… yeah. Not fine. Not really. But I will be. I mean. She has to work out who she is now and all that. It’s be hard enough to go through that, and mourning your—your husband, and your whole life, even without the whole… weird situation that we had going on here. I get it, I do.She’ll… be back. I mean, she will, right? Or at least. She’ll be in touch.”

“Yes, Sam. Yes.”

“Okay. Right. Just—”

“She loves you both very much. Both the boys you were and—and what she’s seen of the men you are. There’s just such a lot that she missed. And she feels guilty about that, I think. I. Perhaps if I showed her some of the Carver Edmund books…”

“Oh god, no.”

“Not the ones with ‘key character arcs’. With Dean going to Hell, and, and—”

“Ruby.”

“Yes. And Ruby. I was thinking maybe some of the books which simply focus on your isolated cases. To give her a clearer idea of how you speak, and how you work, and who you are to each other.”

“Or just make her think our lives are full of flat purple prose.”

“I’m sure she’ll make allowances for genre.”

“Yeah, well. Your dad is a shitty pulp writer. How about that. Screw it—go for it, Cas. If you think it’ll—it’ll make her feel better. Just. There’s some things I’d rather… tell her in my own words, y’know? The big things.”

“I understand. Cas. Thanks.”

“… Thanks?”

“Good breakfast.”

 

* * *

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

_A cursory rap of knuckles on a door, which immediately creaks open. A muttered grumble and the shift of bedclothes._

“Dean.”

“Cas? Y’re still here?”

“Of course. I brought you breakfast.”

“… Dude. ’s the middle of the night.

“It’s past eleven in the morning.”

_Creaking of bedframe as someone laboriously levers himself into a sitting position._

“Yeah. Like I said. Middle of the night.”

“How do you feel?”

“Oh, just peachy.”

“Yes, I suppose that was a rather foolish question. Here—the tray, and—should I put the coffee here—”

“Honey, you shouldn’t have.”

“I shouldn’t?”

 _More creaking_.

“You’re going to sit on my bed and watch me as I eat. Course you are.”

“I like your bed.”

“That’s… right, whatever. Hey, is this spinach? Did Sam put you up to this?”

“Actually, it’s kale.”

“… You’re shitting me.”

“You’re right, I am shitting you. But there is plenty of garlic in it.”

“Fine.”

“You’re angry.”

“No shit Sherlock.”

“It’s elementary, my dear Dean.”

“Don’t do that, it’s creepy.”

“At her or at yourself?”

“Fuck’s sake, Cas. You bring a guy breakfast in bed, you let him eat it in peace, okay? Not that hard.”

“Very well.”

_Silence. Except for obnoxiously loud eating noises._

“When I saw my Father for the first time, I—”

“Cas. Just… I can’t. Not now.”

“As you wish.”

“… did you just...”

“I will leave you to enjoy your breakfast, Buttercup.”

“You, buddy, are a smart-arse.”

_Creak of relieved bed-frame. A moment’s pause._

“Don’t forget to check in on Sam.”

“You mean ‘don’t forget to stop moping in bed’, right?”

“If you like.”

_Pause. Silence. A fork clatters to a plate. A slight choking noise._

“What was that.”

“That was a kiss. Did I do it wrong?”

“… Uh.”

“I’m sorry. Should it have been somewhere other than your forehead.”

“…”

“… um. no. that’s… okay.”

“Good.”

“… bye Cas.”

“Goodbye, Dean. I will ring you later.”

“thanksforbreakfast.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Some days later.**

_The hush of a church: incense, and the quiet murmur of candles and prayers. A conversation with a priest. Heavy footsteps coming back up the centre aisle of the nave toward the exit._

“…I don’t know, maybe a rogue angel?”

_The footsteps falter, pause._

“Dean?”

“…Yeah. Uh. I’ll make the call.”

 

(3:25 pm) _Incoming call: Dean to Castiel._

“Dean.”

“Uh. Hey, buddy. How you doin’?”

“To be honest. I am mostly exasperated.”

 _A chuckle, half-relieved_.

“Oh yeah? Figured out that cleaning up dog shit isn’t as much fun as everyone told you?”

“Nobody has ever told me that, Dean. And no, I found her owners. They had moved two counties over and she had tried to find her way back to her old home when she lost them on a walk.”

“Well look at you, champion of all things cute and hungry.”

“Why—would you consider yourself to be ‘cute’, Dean?”

_Sudden coughing fit. Blustering._

“Hell yeah, buddy. The cutest. Uh.”

“Are you alright?”

“‘Course. Cas. When you sent…”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. Forget it. Hey, so. Case over here, chick went full on flagellant and stigmata. Dragged herself into the church oozing blood everywhere—holes in her hands and feet, crown-of-thorns pricks around her head, the whole deal—speaking in tongues, whip-marks turning up on her back as she went. Collapsed at the altar and died. Blood running out of her ears. Ring any bells to you?”

“Well, it’s an obvious allusion to the passion of—”

“Yeah, we got that much.”

“Of course. But the trouble with cases like this is that the idea of that story that story has penetrated so deeply into your cultural consciousness that—“

“Jesus, Cas. Could you not say _penetrated_ like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like… never mind. So you mean that it’s like… religion, but folklore at the same time?”

“I’m saying there are many things that could do this. Including, potentially, the woman herself. Without meaning to, of course. The power of the human mind is a strange thing, especially when it comes to deeply help beliefs. It drives people to—well, to flagellate themselves over unnecessary things.”

“… we still talking about the case, Dread Pirate Roberts?”

“What else?”

“You know I can hear it when you’re laughing at me.”

“I assure you I am not laughing.”

“Yeah, not _out loud_. Uh. So, anything on angel radio?”

“I’m afraid not. And we are still locked out: there can be no orders coming down from above.”

“Right, right. So. Uh. What are you up to, then? I mean. With the whole Lucifer thing.”

“Well, I believe he’s currently at the bottom of the Mariana trench.”

“… okay, I think I missed an update.”

“I should probably tell you that I’m working with Crowley.”

“Yeah, ‘cos that always ends well.”

“As we all know, yes. However, we were pursuing the same leads, so it seemed wise to pool our resources. As it happened, Crowley and Rowen had previously captured Lucifer, but he turned the tables on them. Crowley escaped, Rowena was captured; but by the time we caught up with them, Rowena had blasted the devil and his new vessel to the bottom of the ocean.”

“… Wow.”

“What?”

“I mean. Wow. Shit went down with someone that wasn’t us for a change.”

“It is rather disconcerting, isn’t it.”

“I’ll say. So, new vessel?”

“Yes. A rock singer, I think. By the name of Vince Vincente?”

“Vince Vincente? Wow. Wasn’t he some glam rock douchebag way back when?”

“I don’t really understand what that means, Dean. Your music genre classification remains opaque.”

“That’s because you’re horribly undereducated, Cas.”

“Also I don’t know how you put up with Crowley for so long He gives me a headache.”

“Well, y’know. I was a demon, what can I say.”

“I think he gives most demons a headache.”

“Yeah, probably. Uh. I. Just. What’s it sound like to you?”

“Noise and rhythm.”

“Ha ha. I meant the case.”

“Oh. I don’t know. Personal conviction? But I couldn’t say whose.”

“Yeah. Who knows, these days.”

“Indeed.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“… I started playing a game on my phone.”

“Oh my god.”

“I caught a vulpix. I named him Garcia.”

“Cas, buddy, I feel like I gotta ask, _why_.”

“Because they are all alone and uncared-for, Dean.”

“So’s the whole world, Cas.”

“Yes, well. I can’t care for them all, Dean. Only the ones that matter to me. Like you do.”

“You mean like I—uh. Have you heard from Mom?”

“… Uh. We have not spoken to each other on the telephone today.”

“Buddy. That’s your shifty voice.”

“Are you angry with her, Dean.”

“Why should I be.”

“Because your voice goes flat and hard every time you mention her.”

“I just don’t want—because you and Sam always try to make me _talk about my feelings_ , Christ.”

“Of course. And it’s not—”

“Look, she walked, okay. She left us behind. Like Dad. Like Sam. Like—“

“Like me.”

“… fuck. Cas.”

“Dean.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“You did. And you should. I understand, Dean.”

“Shut up.”

“I told her that the idea of _departure_ means more for you than she might have realised. That everybody you trust has let you down many times, including me.”

“You told…”

“We exchanged some texts yesterday.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I taught her how to use emoticons.”

“Wait, wait, wait, what? Be serious.”

“Why, is that… weird?”

“Yes, Cas that’s weird. That’s really really weird.”

“My apologies. I will restrain myself to sending her smiley emoticons and pies in future.”

“Okay, well.”

“And buttercups.”

“… Thanks for the heads-up.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Muttering:_

“I’m a thirteen-year-old girl.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_9:55 am: The sound of wings._

“Dean.”

“Oh, fuck. Seriously, Cas?”

“Hello, Dean.”

“Cas.”

“I found your mother a charger for her phone.”

“What?”

“She is helping me look for Lucifer.”

“… Cas.”

“Dean, it is her choice. It seemed to me that she needed a case. I know your family, Dean. She needed somebody to talk to, and I…”

_The creak of a chair and the shuff of shoes on carpet, as one person rises heavily to his feet and turns to face the other._

“You what, Cas. What did you need?”

“I don’t need anything.”

“Cas. You’re… here. You pick me up every damn time, dude, and—what do _you_ need?”

 _A soft hum_. _The rustle of air moving out of the way, as skin approaches skin._

“I… hardly know. Dean?”


End file.
